


tumblr fics

by jauneclair



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 17:25:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11514006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jauneclair/pseuds/jauneclair
Summary: Short fics/prompt fills from tumblr, including:1: tender; like a bruise (silver/flint)2: a little more time (flint/silver/madi)3: I wish we could stay like this forever (silver/madi)4: kisses because I missed you and you really shouldn’t stay away so long (silver/flint)5: I read your diary (silver/flint)6: under the stars (flinthamilton)7: your head on my shoulder (flinthamilton)





	1. tender; like a bruise (silver/flint)

John isn’t sure if they’re fucking, exactly.

Oh, there is sex. Copious sex - good sex, excellent, really. Far better than he’d ever imagined himself having after the loss of his leg.

But he and Flint are both men who understand the importance of words, the when and why of how they are used. And he finds himself unable to ascribe to any of this a name - his mind slips around it, like lamplight through a fog: his thoughts travel in any other direction but straight, when they encounter this dense, heavy thing. Fucking - John had done that on occasion, although maybe on fewer occasions than most men. He’d never considered, overmuch, the lust of the flesh. Not when there were other smoother, harder, weightier riches to be had.

Only once or twice has he gotten it off with one of the men in the ships he’s crewed - the merchant vessel and now the Walrus. Neither time was like what he does with Flint, what Flint does with him. Hands in breeches, a quick pull here, a rough stroke there. Flint is, of course, good at everything he sets his mind to being good at, and so of course he’s good at making John come undone. His captain is righteous in his fury, god-like in his strength, hedonistic in his pleasure. But he’s also tolerant of John’s (practically adolescent) fumblings in this realm, willing to let them take their time, willing to let John explore and to teach him the ways men can enjoy each other.

It’s not just sex. It’s tender touches (on his shoulder, his waist, the back of his neck) as their bodies slot against one another; it’s Flint touching the back of John’s hand when the captain wants to point something out; Flint’s hand resting on John’s knee when they eat together; it’s the careful way Flint holds him, after they’re done - fucking - and they lay there, sharing breath and space and warmth.

“What are you thinking?” Flint murmurs.

“I’m thinking that I’m going to be doubly sore tomorrow, what with the constant drills you make me do with that crutch,” John says, “and, well…this.”

Against Flint’s chest, John feels the change in his captain’s body. His reluctance to name this has not gone unnoticed be either of them.

Flint draws a hand up and down John’s back. He speaks after a time. “I know of your hesitation still to want this, and I don’t blame you.”

“You…don’t?” John shifts up in Flint’s grasp so that he can see the other man’s face. It is a face that is still smiling at him.

Flint’s expression shifts and he’s no longer smiling. “There’s danger in this, for us. We are dangerous to each other. You said as much, the night by the fire.”

John’s breath catches. He hastens to disabuse Flint of that notion, that his reluctance and his hesitation have anything to do with his captain. Maybe at the beginning of all of this, he’d felt differently. But now…now he knows better. He knows Flint and what Flint offers him better.

“No - it’s not that. That’s not - I didn’t think, I don’t know if I deserve this,” John says. He looks anywhere but at Flint’s face. “Something like this. I’m not…good.”

Flint’s motions are deliberate as he moves them, so that John is on his back and Flint is dropping down to nuzzle at the hollow of his throat.

“You deserve to feel good,” Flint murmurs into his skin, beard nicking against John’s shoulder as he presses a kiss there, above his armpit. “To be made to feel good.”

John doesn’t. They’re both bad men, hard men: but he can’t deny his captain if this is what Flint wants; he can’t deny his urge to do the same for Flint in return. So John lets Flint command his body again and John welcomes when Flint opens his body once more, shattering him and putting him back together at the same time.


	2. a little more time (flint/silver/madi)

“That was the most incredible sexual experience of my life,” John Silver says, “and I once had an orgy with five women in this very brothel. In this very room, in fact.”

The head resting on his left thigh lifts and there’s a murmur of, “Does he ever stop talking?”

“Not even in bed,” Madi says. She props herself up one elbow, fingertips dragging lightly over the ridge of Silver’s right shoulder.

Flint snorts, but turns his face to press a kiss to the top of Silver’s thigh. Silver feels it, the imprint of Flint’s lips and the scratch of his beard against Silver’s own skin, like the most miraculous brand.

“I was merely trying to show my appreciation,” he says, half in protest - after he catches his breath. He digs his fingers into Flint’s shoulder. “My substantial appreciation. Were it not for my bad leg and the fact that I don’t believe in the man, I would get down on my knees and worship God for bringing us together. And then I’d worship both of you right now.”

“You are proselytizing, but we are already your converts,” Madi says. He needs a moment to catch his breath, again, and then she kisses him. Her smile doesn’t fade.

“As I was saying,” he manages, after a moment or five when his mind is pleasantly vacant, “although there are many comments and quips to be made, I’m sure, about my mouth and its variety of uses now that we’re all together like this, I have to point out that you both enjoy hearing me talk.”

Flint’s snort is louder this time.

“Are you enjoying the view down there, captain?” Silver asks.

“Immensely,” Flint responds. It sounds as though he may be smirking. Right at Silver’s cock.

Flint gets his hand under Silver’s left knee, ever-careful of the ruined flesh that rings his stump. He raises Silver’s leg so that he can place another kiss on the same spot he did a few moments ago. He kisses Silver’s thigh, all the way up to the join of his hip; and back down, covering the inside of John’s thighs with soft presses of his mouth.

The full body shudder that overtakes him at Flint’s attention - careful but also heedless of his injury - is beyond John’s control. So, too, is the interested twitch that his cock gives.

“Really?” Flint says, pausing. “I’d expect that the ‘most incredible sexual experience of your life’ would have sated you for a bit.”

“I could always do with more sating,” he says, wagging his eyebrows. “Unless we’ve exhausted you, captain. We wouldn’t want you to over-exert yourself, now.”

In response, Flint puts a hand on each of John’s thighs and pins him against the bed as he bites down, hard, on the patch of skin right above John’s hipbone. Madi swallows his shout with her own kiss, and it’s embarrassing at how quickly he’s hard again.

“Madi?” Flint says. He reaches out and runs his thumb over her ankle where she’s thrown her foot over Silver’s other leg.

“We have a little time,” she says.

A little more time, Silver thinks. Just a little more.


	3. I wish we could stay like this forever (silver/madi)

He whispers it against her hair: “I wish we could stay like this forever.”

He knows they can’t, of course.

Which is why he only speaks such things aloud at night, when Madi is asleep at his side, his arm curled around her, when all the voices in the camp are silent.

His sincerity is only for the silence. He’s not prepared to see the effect of such sincerity on Madi; he fears, above all, that she will not take it for sincerity. Or that his cannot be matched.

She is, after all, entirely too good for him. She is a princess and he is not a king, in spite of any and all of Billy’s stories. She’s beautiful and he’s missing half a leg. And she is just good, so good. Good in a way that Silver never can be. Devoted to their now-shared cause in a way Silver never can be. He can only ever be devoted to people.

Silver is like the serpent in the Garden of Eden, in reverse: whereas once he went slithering on his belly through life, now he can stand upright - but he knows he is no less a snake.

So he says these things - things he means but things he doesn’t know to be true - only when he’s certain she can’t hear.

“I wish you could stay with me forever.”


	4. kisses because I missed you and you really shouldn’t stay away so long (silver/flint)

In the daytime, Flint is with him at the center of everything: planning their invasion of Nassau, arguing with Teach and Rackham about details of the aforementioned, listening to John’s counsel about how to manage the expectations of their men and Madi’s men and the other pirate captains. That is…surprising enough in and of itself. In and of itself, it should be enough - that Flint listens to him, solicits and respects John’s advice even if he chooses not to follow it. Flint confides in him. Flint teaches him to fight on that cliff and smiles at  _him_. At John Silver.

But sometimes, at night - on those nights when Flint fades away from him, going God-knows-where to do God-knows-what - John isn’t satisfied.

Sometimes, John will find Flint waiting for him on the steps of John's own hut, fiddling with his rings until John invites him in or he casts off into the dark.

Not tonight, it seems.

John strips off his coat in the privacy of the hut and begins the process of tending to his leg; he has been better about it, if only because he now has to contend with Flint and Madi’s concern in addition to Howell’s and the crew’s.

His night-time routine finished, he has already doused one lantern and is about to douse the other when he hears a familiar step on the stairs, and then (almost as predictable) no following knock.

“Captain,” he calls. He hooks the crutch under his arm and throws open the door. Flint is standing there, feet on two different steps, a bottle of rum in his hand.

“The hour’s late,” Flint says. “I shouldn’t - I should leave you to your rest.”

“You should come in,” John says. Flint looks at him with such surprise that he wants to roll his eyes. “You’re welcome here, you know that, yes?”

He nearly winces after he says it; he’d spent months healing in Flint’s cabin aboard the ship, but here on the island, he has never been inside the captain’s own hut. Flint always comes to him.

But Flint doesn’t seem to notice: he just looks at John, and swallows, and steps inside, closing the door behind him.

He hands John the bottle of rum. John takes it from him, brushing his fingers over Flint’s to do so. There’s a table behind John, which is where he sets the bottle without really looking. He grasps the edge of Flint’s coat, tugging him closer, until they are chest to warm chest, and John can feel the beat of Flint’s heart.

“You needn’t bring me a peace offering every time you darken my doorstep,” John says.

Flint looks at him steadily. Softly. It is a vast, vast improvement over how Flint looked at him the first time they stood this close, in the Wrecks, with Flint’s knife at his throat. “It’s not.”

“Quid pro quo, then?”

“I would never -” Flint begins, until John smirks at him. “You little shit.”

He does worry sometimes, that this is all they’ll be: Flint using him to soothe some deep ache, and then discarding him should that ache ever abate.

But Flint is here, now, and John wraps his free arm around Flint and presses forward to kiss him; to remind him of all the things that John Silver will not put into words.

“You don’t have to stay away,” he whispers against Flint’s lips when they part, when he means, _I wish you wouldn’t._


	5. I read your diary (silver/flint)

When Silver reached into his jacket to retrieve his notes for his afternoon address to the crew, he found they were missing. Fuck.

He only had a few minutes before the appointed hour, the one at which he’d been routinely giving his address, and he hastened back to the galley in search of the latest scribblings he’d made of Randall’s observations. He could do it from memory, maybe, or push the hour off, but this new relationship that he was trying to build with the crew still so tenuous. And Flint’s captaincy only so recently regained -

Silver stopped short when he saw the figure in the shadows of the galley.

“Captain?”

Startled, Flint snapped his head up to look at Silver. The captain was still holding the pieces of paper that Silver had folded together to form a book to write down Randall’s intelligence about the crew (as if such a thing existed in Randall or any of the  _Walrus’s_ men).

“What the fuck?” Silver said.

“Pardon me, Mr. Silver?”

“Sorry,” he said, “what the fuck? Captain.”

Flint, clearly recovering himself, said, “I came down to see if Mr. Randall could scrounge me up something passable to eat” - and at Silver’s indignant snort, Flint raised one eyebrow - “and happened to see this lying about. You have a very…distinct narrative flair. Perhaps you should just circulate this as a gossip column instead. Might be less painful for you, overall.”

Silver stared.

“You…read my notes? Randall’s notes, really.”

A smirk spread across Flint’s features. “Yes, Mr. Silver, I read your diary.”

“It’s not a  _diary_ ,” Silver shot back. He wanted to - make a grab for it. Wanted to, certainly. Planned to, likely not. He knew a suicidal impulse when he felt one. Still, the particular smirk that slid over Flint’s face after Silver had all the hairs marching off the back of his neck. Which had also heated. Jesus, it wasn’t  _actually_ a diary. “Why the fuck would you do that? You wouldn’t give a shit if half the men on this ship up and died tomorrow, except that we’d have to sail back to Nassau on reduced crew. So you would give even less of a shit about what the men actually get up to, as long as it’s nothing that prevents them from sailing us back to our destination.”

Flint shrugged. He set the papers down on the table between them when Silver didn’t take them from his outstretched hand and made to leave the galley.

“Unless…” Flint paused when Silver started speaking again, his back now turned to Silver. “You were reading for something of particular interest to you. And I know the one thing that would interest you the most in my gossip column, as you’ve so kindly christened it.”

Flint looked at Silver over his shoulder. “Oh? And what’s that?”

“Yourself, of course.”

Flint turned all the way back around to glare at him. “Is that what you think? That I would waste my time trying to find myself in your - ”

“It’s not what I think,” Silver said, and now he was the one smirking, “it’s what I know. You’re a man concerned with appearances, captain. You want to know what I think of you. Perhaps it’s because I’m your only ally here, or perhaps…”

“Perhaps what?” Flint growled.

Silver cocked his hip against the table, arms folded across his chest. He let his teeth drag along his lower lip as he maintained the same smirk he’d been wearing since he’d figured out Flint’s intent. And oh, was he sure that Flint wanted - no, needed to know what others thought of him. Especially - hopefully - Silver.

“You tell me,” Silver said.

Flint’s glare turned into a glower. “Keep wondering, Mr. Silver,” he spat, before turning and leaving.

Well, Silver thought, he hadn’t been nearly murdered. Progress.


	6. under the stars (flinthamilton)

They settle in the Carolinas, where the weather is generally pleasant - except in the summer, when it is the opposite, working to make a hell of their sparsely-appointed heaven.

There is one day in July that is unbearably humid and hot, in spite of its cloudlessness; the night equally so, moonless and starless besides because of the thunderclouds that refuse to burst. It is too hot for reading; it is too hot for lovemaking; it is too hot, nearly, for sleeping.

Thomas follows him outside when the heat and the restless turnings of his mind grow too heavy. They are both already stripped down to nothing. They lay in the grass not touching. James wishes for winter’s cold chill, for their stores full, so that he can stay wrapped up in Thomas’s arms in their bed for days. He does not think this likely, but it is a happy fantasy that distracts him from the heat for a few moments.

“I can hear your mind moving,” Thomas murmurs.

He thinks Thomas would sleep if not for him and his restlessness.

“I dislike being unable to see the stars,” he answers, turning his head to look at Thomas. It is a partial truth - he is also thinking of the Doldrums, of the relentless, breezeless heat. It is a memory that nearly makes his stomach growl.

Thomas props himself up on one elbow. “Afraid of the dark, lieutenant?”

Ordinarily, James would have some sharp remark for that manner of teasing. Several suggest themselves in the moment before he remembers:

_In the dark, there is possibility._

Thomas brushes his thumb over the corner of James’ mouth. “You’re smiling, my love. Would you like to share?”

“Yes,” James answers. He leans forward and kisses Thomas, reveling in the familiarity of it. Struggling to recall a long-ago time when he could not even imagine this, being wanted like this, loving like this, letting Thomas tilt his chin back and hold his face as though he were made of spun glass. They kiss, in the dark.

And James discovers he is free.


	7. your head on my shoulder (flinthamilton)

Fire licks at his limbs. Not a true fire, nor even a rather concerning metaphorical one (and James has had his feet held to many of those, once upon a time), but fire that has not been weaponized. Fire in its purest form: the light that shelters; the warmth that provides.

“You’re babbling, my love.” Thomas’s voice is a physical thing, brushing over his scalp with its collection of too-short and too-long hairs. Is he speaking this out loud?

“Yes.” Thomas has the goodwill, at least, not to laugh. Though he does pry the mug from James’s right hand, the fingers giving way with little resistance. James might struggle, were he more sober, and were Thomas not providing the warm pillow of his shoulder. “I see the years have not altered your propensity to wax poetic once the libations are flowing.”

“It’s just,” James says into the curve of Thomas’s neck - he could stare at it forever, just this patch of perfect, tanned but unblemished skin - “you’re here. You’re  _here_.”

Thomas’ arm tightens around him.

“I am.”

“Good,” James whispers against Thomas’s skin. “Tell me more about libations.”

The tendons in Thomas’s neck move, and that is how James knows his lover smiles, when Thomas picks up the copy of  _The Odyssey_  in his lap and begins to read aloud again.


End file.
